The Final Act
by michellemybelle25
Summary: One last journey into the darkness.


Hello!

I hope everyone had an amazing summer. So this story is my way of saying thank you to all the phans who have supported me the last few years. This might be my last posted story for quite awhile. I had an incident with someone plagiarizing one of my stories on another website this summer that really left some scars. But just because I'm not posting doesn't mean I'm not writing more Phantom stories. I spent all summer lost in the Phantom's lair, and I still have a lot more tales to tell.

For now, I'm going to concentrate on publishing new story collections. "Manifestations of a Phantom's Soul, volume 3" will be released in a few weeks, and a collection of dark, mostly un-posted stories, "Manifestations of a Phantom's Soul, The Untold Darkness" will be available later this fall. Check out my Facebook page or my website for more information.

For now, here is one more tale to inspire. And for my own piece of mind, I need to remind all my readers that my stories are copywritten, and I will not hesitate to seek legal action against anyone who steals my words or uses them without my permission.

Onto the story! Thank you all for being amazing phans!

SUMMARY: One last journey into the darkness.

"The Final Act"

She sang for an angel that night. Every note past her lips, every breath in her lungs, every vulnerable hint of her soul. It was all _for him_. Christine knew she was betraying Raoul and their flimsy engagement and making a very grown-up step into a cold, hostile world, but she did it anyway.

Erik's opera was the manifesto of a madman, according to management, cast, and even her own fiancé, an outcry from a demented mind. They treated every lyrical melody and orchestration like audible proof of the Opera Ghost's insanity and discounted its virtuosic exquisiteness. It didn't seem fair. At last, Erik was proclaiming his genius for the world to see, and the world was insulting and degrading it all because of its composer's sordid reputation. They were only performing it in hopes of catching a killer, using his melodies like the proverbial siren's song to lure him in, and she… Why, she was expected to be the siren herself. Tempting him to approach and make his presence known. She was the biblical Delilah about to sever the very artery of music from his soul.

Yes, that was the role _they_ wanted her to play, but she chose another, the one she was truly cast in. Erik's heroine, singing his music as a gift, not a trap. Perhaps it was naïve to believe that if she weren't playing their game, Erik would just _know_, that he'd hear the genuineness and sincerity in her voice and feel her yearning to please him. How she longed for him to realize there was no malice in her heart, even if every other body in that theatre carried only hatred with their weapons. She would have shouted it up to the rafters, but as it was, she only had pitches and music to speak for her. So she poured her secrets into her lyrics and prayed he understood.

Up a scale and through a fiery cadenza. She sang it more agile and clean than she had in rehearsals, but she was no longer in control of her voice. Notes poured from her heart like rainbows of brilliant color, and as she ended on a pulsating high note, she released every lingering restraint and became one vast column of sound and emotion.

That note seemed to stream beyond the opera's roof, up into the sky, bursting through the cumulus of clouds and soaring straightway to heaven. It might have called every angel in those pearly gates, but she directed its power at only one. _Her_ angel trapped in the body of a ghost.

…And he heard her desperate plea.

As her aria ended to thunderous accolades and the scene spun forward, characters made their entrances from the wings, …characters in _masks_. It seemed ironic that the accessory of choice for most of the background cast was that very object Erik most hated, but now she saw the necessity in its construction. The _gendarme_ were looking for a man in a mask to make an appearance, but they never presumed he would integrate himself into the melee onstage and become one of the on-looking chorus.

Christine recognized his shape even before mismatched eyes found her, and she bit back a cry of elation. That haunted gaze was set upon her, every flickering emotion in beds of blue and green so weighty and over-laden in intensity. She'd run from such fear-inducing feelings once bore, terrified to surrender. This time, she prayed for their consumption, prayed that her chance had not passed her by.

Only one look was cast up to the Vicomte's box with a nervous fear that he, too, had recognized an angel on earth. But Raoul was distracted, scanning the aisles and audience, never suspecting what was happening right in front of everyone. Next to the Vicomte sat the head of the _gendarme_; the oversized man had a powder-sugared pastry in his chubby hand and was more fixed on its flaky layers than any moment of glorious opera.

Christine made a face at such disrespect before turning all attention back to her approaching angel. The other chorus members were singing their foreboding melody as they encircled her where she stood, but Erik abandoned their line, halting before her when the others made their exit.

Still, no one seemed to realize what was truly going on, and she beseeched in an urgent gaze for escape. Oh God, let him whisk her offstage before anyone grew aware; let him take her away…

But perhaps she'd spurned him one too many times because he didn't dare touch her; he didn't do anything more than stand center-stage at her side for a long held moment as the strings elongated their last pitch and a furious conductor awaited their exit to carry on.

"Please," Christine breathed beneath her breath, her stare boring into his in her urgent anxiety. They could leave. They could go, and no one would note anything amiss.

But…she made the fatal mistake of glancing at the Vicomte's box. One look to make certain there were no weapons at the ready. The Vicomte had yet to acknowledge the stage and the head of the _gendarme_ was licking sugar from his stubby fingers. …And she could tell as she looked back at Erik that he'd misread the gesture.

His flaring temper was an inferno as he narrowed furious eyes on her, and he coldly spat, "They're searching for a disfigured madman. Let's give them no question who their guns should be pointed at. It wouldn't be fair not to offer them a fighting chance, would it?"

"Erik, no," she whispered, but it was too late. He grabbed the mask, ripped it from his face, and made sure everyone saw as he froze center-stage and glared bitterly at the gaping audience.

"Erik," Christine called miserably beneath a cacophony of screams and ugly insults. Every horror-induced sound rose like a poisonous vapor, threatening to suck them into its fog. She darted a wary look at Raoul, only to find him racing out of his box while a gun was lifted in the powder-sugar stained hands of the police captain.

No… Christine did not second-guess an impulse to dart in front of Erik's body, but the gesture was for nothing. Before it could go acknowledged, Erik had her about the waist and the floor was giving out beneath their feet. She cried out as she felt herself falling fast, but Erik's arms grew tight about her and held firm until solid floor met their descent. It was obviously another of his trap doors, and while he'd anticipated the fall and landed with only a sway on his feet, she stumbled to the ground, escaping his hold and landing with a thud.

"Get up! Get up!" he harshly commanded, groping for her, but she was still in a shocked stupor as she tried to figure out how things had so quickly gone awry.

Her eyes looked up to the light pouring in from the open hole in the stage floor as resonant screams filtered down. The chaos of a traumatized audience. They'd seen a monster on the stage, but she…

Christine's attention shifted to the skeleton-like face hovering angrily over her. A good Catholic girl would have presumed he was _Death_. Death coming to steal her soul to the afterworld. Perhaps it exposed the malformation and sin hidden inside her if she _wanted_ to go with him. He was ugly and deformed, a corpse more than a man, with gaunt and gaping features among too much exposed bone. But with the stage light streaming down to illuminate, the glow made a halo about that death head and again entwined its heinous connotations with her definition of _angel_. Death loved her; an angel loved her. But the man who carried both titles only looked infuriated with her at present, and she was unsure how to crack the façade.

"Come on!" he shouted again, and this time, he did not hesitate to catch her forearm in a viselike grip and drag her to her feet. She was given no chance to regain herself. He yanked her into the darkness of the cellars, and she tripped over her own feet with every hasty step.

Down, through long winding corridors, and the damp, dank air enshrouded her with its chill. She shivered as goose bumps coated every inch of her defenseless skin, even the innocuous forearm snared in an angel's brutal grasp. …Were angels meant to leave bruises, and would an angel's bruises bleed deep enough to stain the soul?

Erik had not bothered to fetch a light, and by the last bit of glow before blinding darkness, she peered over his shoulder and lost a flustered gasp.

"A snake!" she whispered when a gasp sounded too loud and echoed through the stone tunnels. "I didn't know there were snakes down here!"

No answer met her, and the last glimpse she had of it was as it slithered quickly across the ground. Snakes crossing their path… It felt like an omen.

Deeper into the blackness, and the memory of their hissing intruder had her rushing her steps to be nearer to Erik's solid shape. She saw _nothing_, as if a veil had been drawn over her eyes and taken her sight, and the disconcerting reality quickened her breaths and made her head spin. Oh, what torture! To be trapped in the dark forever… But she caught the reverberations of Erik's breaths in her ears, and they calmed an instinct to cry.

"Erik," she attempted, trembling with the sharply dipping temperature. "Won't you say something? …Please_, ange_, I can't bear this silence anymore."

"A monster's scripted lines typically consist of little more than growls and grunts, sounds of aggression and savagery. Words are far too civilized."

"Erik-"

But a fierce roar tore from his throat, and before she could reason it, he forced her back against one stone wall. In the dark, she did not expect the assault. All she had was the push of cruel hands and the ferocity of an angered grasp.

Christine could _feel_ him even though she saw only blackness. She _felt_ his hovering silhouette mere inches from the hands pinching her arms in their hold. He snarled furiously, and she fantasized the vision of his anger. Dear God, he truly would look like a monster if rage extended that deep! …_Did it_ extend deep, or was it another facet of a carefully designed façade?

"Have I ever been so violent with you, Christine?" he demanded, and she detected the subtlest hint of sadness in his voice. "Or treated you like anything but fine porcelain one wrong touch from shattering to bits? And yet I was hunted tonight like an animal, not even human. Those fools sat with their pistols ready to shoot in the middle of _my opera_, in the mist of a crowded theatre. They would have shot me like a wild beast, and you would have seen your angel dead at your feet. …Was that what _you_ wanted, Christine? Was it your choice…or _his_?"

The answer was easy, and yet she bore a terror to speak it. Would the Opera Ghost's vengeance shift to Raoul the second she confirmed his assumption? …Despite everything she felt or didn't feel for Raoul, she did not want him _dead_ for his ignorance.

She never had the chance to decide her reply.

"Christine!"

A faint echo carried down from levels above, a pursuit already happening, and Erik released one arm if only to clamp his hand over her mouth. She'd had no intention of returning the call, and yet she was doubtless her wide, fear-fringed eyes spoke differently.

His other arm wove about her waist and drew her firmly against his chest, knocking the air from her lungs in the process. Inhale…and she fit more tightly against his body, feeling every hard plane and muscle, every masculine detail that made her squirm with a mixture of anticipation and unease. It felt _necessary_ to be this close to him, so much so that she dreaded an inevitable exhalation and the miniscule separation that deflated lungs must cause.

"Not a word," Erik instructed against her ear. The command was cold, but the body against hers was surprisingly warm and _alive_, strong as he lifted her feet from the ground and rushed them along.

His hand remained over her mouth, the curves of his palm flush to her lips. She'd foolishly told Raoul that Erik's hands reeked of _death_. How naïve and ignorant she'd been! Ready to judge every nuance that did not fit into her preconceived fairytale story! Erik had heard her childish statement that night, eavesdropping her betrayal on the rooftop, and she could speculate his hurt. He was just a man, and she'd started the world's depiction of monster when she'd confided exaggerations to Raoul. This was all her fault…

Without a single flicker of regret, Christine pressed a kiss against that mistreated palm. It was penance and apology. She wasn't certain he felt it, for he gave nothing away but a continued furious grip and hurried steps through the dark, but it was the best she could offer from an aching heart.

When the first hints of light appeared ahead of them, her eyes latched onto the dim glow, absorbing the weak rays and squinting painfully for them to be enough. Still, she had but pointless silhouettes until Erik drew her out of the cold catacombs and into the fire-lit welcome of his underground home.

He released her just beyond the doorway, and as she swayed on her feet to find her equilibrium, she scanned the familiar setting. It was as if she'd never left. But six months away showed in the fine details: random and new knickknacks, a statue of a fluffy lamb on the mantle, a book on the anatomy of spiders spread out on the coffee table. Such things reminded her that she was a stranger even if her instinct dubbed it home.

Behind her, she heard the click of a closing door. She knew Raoul would follow them, searching the catacombs as he picked up his predetermined role of hero. _He_ was the one to cast _himself _in the part; Christine longed to argue that she already had a hero and he was the disfigured angel regarding her with wariness and doubt.

"You didn't struggle," he bid, and she wondered if he said it for her or for his own skeptical mind. "Is fear the force driving you tonight, Christine? Or…is it something else?"

"I'm not afraid," she concluded in a whisper.

"No?" Erik seemed hesitant to accept it as truth, and shaking his head, he suddenly caught her arm again, squeezing already tender skin and making her gasp. Ignoring everything but his intentions, he yanked her down a narrow corridor to the room he'd once called _hers_.

Her focus was the bed the instant he shoved her inside, and in spite of any bravado she acted, its intimate image made her tremble. Desire was the emotion she'd always run from, the very real fire that threatened to scorch her if she ever willingly succumbed to it. She'd spent six months hiding from its flame, trying to build the bravery to face it, …pointlessly so if she was already a mess of shivers and goose bumps without a single graze of its embers.

Turning wide eyes to her companion, she found him at her armoire, throwing its doors open on their hinges and reaching into its multi-colored array of silks and cottons. Why was she truly not surprised when from the back, he drew forth an elegant white wedding dress? Maybe she'd intuitively known all along that this must be the finale of their final act.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded almost nonchalantly as he brought the gown to her bed and reverently laid it and its delicate veil upon the mattress. Those impatient eyes lifted to her agape expression, the green of one orb particularly vibrant as he snapped again, "Take off your clothes."

"If…if you will just give me a moment to myself," she stammered, unsure how to take his order.

"_Now_," he retorted without a hint of understanding.

"But…you can't mean to…watch me," she attempted, knowing she sounded weak and childish. Where was the strength she'd yearned to show? It had abandoned her at first mention of grown-up topics.

"Indeed, I do," Erik replied as if it meant little. "I don't trust you enough to leave you alone. How much a preferred fate is _death_ over marriage to a monster? Minutes out of your presence could see you a beautiful corpse bleeding on my carpet in a feeble attempt at suicide."

"Suicide?"

She'd never considered that an option, but as she shook her head urgently, she could practically see the fluctuation of such a scene on the malformed features of that skeleton face. It was clear that when he'd formulated his schemes of the evening's progression, _he_ had dubbed suicide a viable course for her. How much it stung her to realize how little he believed she cared for him! And she was hesitant to think that simply telling him she'd loved him all along would change anything. He'd mistrust the very truth on her lips.

"Erik," she tried, desperate to seem convicted, "I promise I am not going to try to kill myself-"

"You expect me to take you at your word?" he posed doubtfully. "You also once promised that my face, my past, my sins mattered for nothing, that the _music_ meant more, and in your next breath, you ran to your worthless Vicomte and poured out my secrets like a sinner in confession. You had no right to seek absolution for _my_ soul. …You called me a monster."

The accusation brought pain to the surface, and it surpassed every arrogant façade with its power. She hated herself at that moment to see the consequences of her own pettiness.

"I'm sorry," she breathed in a whisper when tears choked her voice.

"It's far too late to regret the transgressions that brought us here, especially when apologies are hollow and self-serving. Perhaps you'd never have loved me, but you could have had an adoring supplicant as your husband, ready to bow at your feet for just a grazing of your shadow. I would have _worshipped_ you, Christine. …Now you will deal with a jailer under his lock and key without a single liberty for your own. I cannot chance my little nightingale making her flight for freedom, can I? I'm sure _death_ is preferable to life in an underground cage with the devil as your warden, and I refuse to give you the option." Haughtiness back in place, he plopped down upon her chaise, gaze always penetrating her soul, and commanded, "Take off your gown, and put on that wedding dress. Our nuptials await. We must get started before our audience arrives to spoil the moment."

Christine could guess whom their 'audience' consisted of. Dear God, she'd done this. She'd broken the disfigured man before her so completely that she was suddenly unsure happy endings were possible. Even if she accepted her fate stoically, married him and was as good and loving a wife as it was within her capabilities to be, he'd always suspect lies. He was taking her freedom; he'd forever believe she was looking for a means to get it back. Everything suddenly felt hopeless.

"Tick tock, time is precious," Erik taunted, fixing her in his glare. "Are you going to obey your soon-to-be husband, or must I punish you for insolence and strip you myself?"

There would be no pleasant outcome to that. She imagined only violence and cruelty when she longed for tenderness in a moment so vulnerable. So with shaking hands, she reached for the clasps of her gown.

As she worked, she focused on Erik's face. Vulnerable. He was vulnerable at that exact moment, exposed and putting himself in her line of judgment. He did so with the certainty that disgust would drive her, but Christine was finished with disgust and its unappealing allies. She was _not_ disgusted by the gruesome facets of a malformed visage, not when she'd spent months envisioning it in her mind's eye and teaching herself that a heart meant more.

Modesty begged her to lower her eyes, but she did not concede until her gown tumbled to the floor, following its trek with her abashed gaze. She could no longer endure his seeming haughtiness, but as a breathless gasp tickled her ear, she knew the façade was fractured again. She wore only a flimsy shift and pantalettes beneath her costume, not the many proper layers that would have preserved propriety, and a blush raced its heat through her veins to catch Erik's resonating breaths and know he was shaken by the vision of her.

Desire…and once again she wondered if she were strong enough to feel it and not crumble.

She was about to reach for the wedding gown when a fluster of motion halted her. Before she could garner courage to look up, thin but fierce arms were encircling her waist, and she was drawn almost gently against his body. Those arms coiled more and more fixedly until she was completely ensnared in his embrace and felt the erratic pulsation of his heartbeat as an echo of her own.

"Christine," he hoarsely whispered, and she shivered as his unmasked face burrowed against the crease of her neck. Her hair parted its curtain, surrendering its protection, and she shivered harder as scarred and unnatural flesh met the sensitive skin of her throat.

Dear God… One contact, and she felt overpowered. Bravery abandoned her and left her to fend for herself; it was frightened off by sensations so great that they stole rational thought. Were these emotions pure and just? They felt like the devil's magic, burning inside and charring the edges of her soul. If she succumbed, …what then?

"Why must you make my love a sin?" Erik demanded in hushed breaths below her ear. "As if the heart I gave so freely and completely is a punishment to bear… I don't understand. I thought it the right of humanity: to _love_ and feel and cherish one another. Do such blessings only apply to those who are beautiful and wanted in the world? Am I denied simply because I am ugly…?"

Christine ached as she listened to his self-loathing, and trembling to her core, she lifted a tentative hand and delicately stroked the crown of his head. He tensed against her as if expecting pain or violence, to be punished yet again for baring his heart, but she did not cower this time, continuing to caress until his muscles gradually gave up their tautness and relaxed into her.

"I can still be your adoring angel," he softly offered with so much hope that it brought tears to her eyes. "If you'd but let me, I'd bow before you in worship forever." He shook his head, and as she bore the contact of his scars, rubbing into her, she shivered and edged closer to his body. "What will it come to, Christine? Must I sell my soul to the devil for your love? I would do it without regret. Condemn myself to hellfire for but a brief taste of paradise in this sphere of existence. I will be Faust, and I will curse myself. What care have I for the afterlife anyway? Its pains cannot compare to the accursed life I've endured. So call forth the devil. My soul handed over without contest simply for the privilege to adore you for the rest of my days… Christine, will that do? Is that enough? Does the soul of one man outweigh the wealth and pleasing features of another? Or will you only stare at my horrible face in hatred for the remainder of your days?"

"Erik, I-"

"No, no, I don't care what you will say," he decided and recoiled from her, drawing beyond her suddenly empty arms. "Offering pledges to bide your time until your Vicomte arrives only make me the fool if I believe you. Get dressed. I prefer a forced wife to one who lies to pacify to my temper."

Christine yearned to correct his assumptions, to re-script the entire libretto in his head and rewrite her character, but…she knew he'd call it an act. Oh, what a horrible place she'd put herself in! She wanted Erik's body against hers again, his love dangling within her reach, open and given like a gift, but he couldn't stop judging past mistakes long enough to listen to her.

He was seated on her chaise again, watching with longing eyes that she could feel skim caresses over her body. She almost regretted drawing on the wedding gown and losing their intangible touch on her bare skin.

As she buttoned the gown into place, he suddenly breathed, "You make such a beautiful bride…" A heartfelt compliment, but it was laden in such sadness that she swallowed against tears to bear its words. In his world, her beauty was both coveted and cursed.

As she reached for the lace-trimmed veil still resting on her bed, he leapt to his feet and rushed to grab it first. "No, no, let me."

She gave no protest, simply watched with wide eyes as he lifted the veil in hands she could see quaking. He approached with that reverence he'd spoken of and a hint of timid uncertainty, as if half-afraid she'd shun his attempt. But she stayed rooted in her spot and let her eyes reveal the love in her heart as he delicately placed the veil atop her dark curls, adding a caress with fingers that brushed through a handful of coils on their way out again.

"Perfection," he breathed before seeming to remember his Opera Ghost countenance. All sweet emotions vanished and escaped like vapors in the air as he abruptly grabbed her forearm and drew her back through the house.

"We don't have much time," he insisted, depositing her in the sitting room before the flickering hearth.

As he rummaged through a pile of papers, her gaze locked on the fluffy lamb statue, staring at her with hollow eyes. She couldn't help but wonder why in the world he'd purchased such a saccharine trinket and resigned herself to asking once things settled between them. …And they _must_ settle. She refused to believe she'd spend the rest of her life with the aloof and temperamental Opera Ghost as her only companion.

"Ah, here it is!" Erik unfolded a parchment and spread it on the coffee table atop the open book on spiders. She could still glimpse the top corner of one page and its description of a tarantula's venom. …Merely the implication left her shuddering and glancing at random corners before fixing attention on the document.

"A legal and binding marriage certificate," he told her without an inkling of kindness. He might as well have been talking about the spiders… "We have no mortal witness, but I suppose we can count God and the devil. I'm not certain we can claim either of them in our favor, but they will do."

Producing a pen, he quickly yet elegantly signed his own name before extending it to her with expectant eyes. "Shall I offer the proverbial ultimatum? Threaten the Vicomte's life or other expected sin and crime? I _can_, but I prefer keeping this moment untarnished with such basely perverse talk. How about instead if I tell you that your angel _aches_ for you to be his…? That…I could _love you_ more than anyone in the world can? That…I could give you your every dream, _anything_ you wish, Christine? Please…just be mine."

Those were the very terms she wanted, and as she took the pen without hesitation, she prayed he saw that she did not falter or tremble, did not offer resistance. No. She scripted the letters of her name on the document and made it clear that it was her choice.

As she lifted eager eyes to her _husband_, she saw his incredulousness, his yearning to trust, his wary elation.

"I…I didn't believe you'd obey without ugly words," he admitted. "I had threats in my head." His chuckle was full of misery. "While my bride signed her freedom to me and committed to be mine, _I_ had _threats_ in my head and cruel words ready to meet my tongue. I was going to heave horror like a monster because I was so sure you would deny me. How callous and ignorant of me! I destroyed the most perfect moment in my existence with ugly thoughts…"

Swallowing against her own weakness, Christine meekly declared, "I had no ugly thoughts in my head. I…only considered how much I wanted to be yours."

Erik's doubt-filled gaze rose to meet her, and she refused to waver beneath her own emotions this time. "Prove it," he commanded. "Be mine, Christine. You are _my wife_. Won't you…kiss your husband?"

Hesitations were constructed in shyness, but though she trembled, she inched closer to him, glancing between his dubious eyes and his misshapen mouth.

Just before she could graze his lips, she whispered, "Don't think any ugly thoughts. Let me make you beautiful ones."

It wasn't a heavy command, no words that still quaked her with their overwhelming power. Not yet… She was determined to learn to use such words, to carry their letters without fail and breathe them to him every time an unpleasant shadow flickered in his eyes. But for now she depended on simplicity…and a kiss.

Her lips brushed his gently first, and he lost a moan that trigged her intrigue instead of her fear. It was such a glorious sound. She yearned to hear it again, and with that thought as her resolve, she pressed puckered lips to his, never deterred by his obscure shapes against her.

This was something new. She'd experienced kisses with Raoul, but they were almost too conventional while this… This was placing her mouth on Erik's source of shame and loathing. It was granting tenderness to details that had only ever known abuse. 'Kiss' was a paltry word to define her actions when she felt like she was changing the course of his history.

His body shuddered, the tremor racking his muscles from head to toe so violently that she feared he would break away. She refused to let him, sliding suddenly determined arms about his shoulders and gripping tight as she delicately moved her lips against his and sought to make him shudder again. Ah, to hold such power! She'd forever been the weak one between them; now she held all he was in her kiss, and it was delightful and exciting. She wanted these feelings forever.

Christine was the one to encourage a firmer contact and a greater fervency, thrilling to feel him timidly mimic her motions, always with an unasked question between them. She didn't want question marks; she wanted exclamation points. Pressing more assuredly to lips that flattened their swollen arch in her attempt, she dared to tease the fire as the tip of her tongue licked at their seam and gently slid within the cavern of his mouth.

Another moan escaped and brought ripples of flames through her. She couldn't stop her eagerness for more, …_didn't want to _stop. She tasted him on her tongue and shivered her longing.

_She_ was the teacher, and he the willing pupil, and then to her elation, he surpassed her lead and let passion overcome shyness. He tasted her back and teased the contours of her mouth with his tongue.

Oh, to be desire's victim! And for the first time, she wasn't afraid…

A shot rang out. It was so loud and jarring that it shook the stone walls of Erik's home and tore a kiss in two. Christine felt Erik tense in her arms, and before she could reason what had happened, she noted that her fingers gripping his shoulder blade were wet…

And then her angel tumbled to the earth's surface and landed in a heap at her feet, and she was face to face with her fiancé, standing in the open doorway with his pistol at the ready for another shot.

"No…" She breathed the word without sound as she dropped to her knees beside her fallen angel. Her shaking hand was stained in his blood, and it smeared the white satin of the wedding gown, so stark and ugly as it pronounced a disaster.

Erik gasped fitful breaths, the wound in his back seeping blood onto the beautiful Persian rug. In the haze of shock, Christine couldn't help but stare at the mess and ponder how Erik would ever get the spots out again…

It wasn't until Raoul approached and grabbed her shoulder that awareness came crashing back. She jerked out of his hold and darted accusing and resentful eyes to him. "What have you done?"

"Saved your life," the Vicomte insisted with only one look at his victim. "Come on, Christine."

"No!" she shouted, fire flaring in her veins. It felt like the strength she'd been seeking for months had exploded with that bullet's shot and now encompassed her in its radiating sphere. "Get out of here! You ignorant man! You destroyed everything!"

"Christine, I was just-"

"Get out!" she shrieked, and shaken by her fervor, the Vicomte dully nodded and edged back toward the door. She wasn't naïve enough to believe he'd go far, but he was not a concern at present. Now… "Oh God…"

Tears poured down her cheeks and struck her stained gown as she gazed upon her broken husband. Despite the sweat lining his brown and the pain fringing his expression, there was a modicum of amusement and pride in his stare.

"How beautiful your bravery is!" he breathed, weak but convicted. "I had hoped I'd get to see it. …Even if but once, it was brilliant to behold."

"No, no, no," she muttered and did not hesitate to cup his disfigured face in her hands. This should have been the first touch in a lifetime's worth of moments, …not the only one. But shaking an adamant head, she decided, "You're going to be fine, _ange_. You _must_ be."

A cough rattled his chest and made her eyes widen as he struggled to reply, "You don't need to lie to me any longer, Christine. …I always knew we'd end in tragedy."

"No," she insisted again. "You're all right. You _have to be_ all right. I won't _let you_ leave me. Erik…" Tears were never ending currents down her cheeks and freefalling wherever they willed. A couple struck that malformed face between her palms and sullied scars with their sorrow. "_Ange_…"

"I don't _want_ to leave you," he admitted in a gasp. "No, never, but…now you'll have a real angel watching over you. You deserve real angels and love stories, …a husband who can give you the world."

"_You_ can give me the world," she vehemently declared, and without a thought she leaned close and pressed kiss after kiss to his misshapen mouth, muttering between bestowment, "_You_ are my husband. …I love you, Erik."

It was a revelation from her innermost soul, but as his pain-filled eyes drifted and fought to find hers again, she wasn't certain he heard her, not until he hoarsely bid, "You are such a good girl to give a monster his final dream. …Such a good girl."

"No, no, Erik, please," she sobbed, rubbing her wet cheek against his scars. "I love you. …I love you so much, and I should have told you so many times. This…is my fault. Oh God, forgive me. _Forgive me_," she cried, her fitful fingers fisting in Erik's hair. "Don't take my angel. Please God, let him stay…"

All she had were the shallow breaths in the chest beneath her, unsteady and growing sporadic, and when she sought to meet his fixed gaze, he wasn't there anymore. He was final breaths and last seconds ticking on the mantle clock. He was the spirit fading out of the world.

"Erik…," she sobbed.

"I…don't want to go alone," he whispered, so weak and empty.

"You're not alone, _ange_. Right now…I'm _your_ angel, and I will take your hand and walk with you wherever you go," she replied, and though her voice choked on her tears, she began to hum, gentle and full of her adoration, …full of her love.

She saw the light flicker in mismatched eyes to recognize the sound, as the faintest trace of a smile tugged the very corners of his mouth. She prayed that her voice could be his peace and envisioned it wrapping warm and snug about his body, embracing his soul and following him even as her body was yet chained to life.

Christine knew it the second he left her sitting and weeping in his underground home. She felt his ending point, and yet she continued to hum, praying that a ghost lingered and heard her plaintive requiem. Perhaps it played still in his dead ears, trapped in their canals and echoing on the other side of living. …And then he'd know he wasn't alone.

"Erik…," she whimpered, bending to his ear when the notes stopped. "Erik, I love you. …I don't want a world without you. Please…" As a sob tore from her soul and made her body ache in reply, she begged in utter desperation, "Come back to me. …Please, Erik. Come back. I love you… I love you…"

* * *

"Christine… Christine!"

Her heavy eyelids darted open, her gaze fuzzy and gradually settling on the canopy above her head. She could feel the chilling sting of the tears beginning to dry on her cheeks, and a gentle hand broke their paths and swiped them away before they joined their brethren soaking the pillow beneath her.

As soon as her eyes met the avid concern on the disfigured face hovering above her, she lost a frantic cry and darted at him, weaving violently trembling arms about his neck as she sobbed anew.

"You were, _dead_, Erik, _dead_, and I was alone!" she cried, nuzzling her tears into his malformed cheek.

"Dead? You silly girl," he chided, and yet his arms came protectively around her and clutched equally as tight. "These pregnancy dreams of yours are as emotionally exhausting to me as they are to you. What was that last one you woke from sobbing? …Your voice cracking center-stage in the middle of _Faust_? Neither of us slept the rest of that night either. I think this baby enjoys torturing us from the womb. Perhaps it's preparing us for the sleepless nights after its arrival."

"How can you carelessly make jokes?" she demanded, clutching his thin frame tighter. He never felt close enough with the growing shape of their baby in between.

"Because it was not _I_ who dreamt of losing _you_…or of public humiliation onstage. It's quite easy to play detachment when you live the account secondhand."

As his hand stroked her hair, she felt her racing heart begin to calm even though the pictures were still too fresh in her head. "What a horrible nightmare! Raoul shot you in the back!"

Her explanation brought a guttural chuckle to his lips as he insisted, "Your dream self gives the Vicomte far too much credit. Shot in the back? Such a cowardly tactic, but that should have been your first clue that you were dreaming. Do you really believe the Vicomte is any competition for the Opera Ghost?"

"It was so real," she breathed, "every detail, even the bizarre ones. You were evidently studying the anatomy of _spiders_ in your spare time."

"Spiders?" Erik chortled with amusement. "Truly?"

"And there was a _snake_ in the catacombs," she added, shuddering with the vision memory conjured.

"Snake? All right, that is farfetched. I never saw a snake in all my years in the depths. _Rats_ on the other hand-"

"Rats?" she squeaked, drawing back to meet his eyes and see if he were teasing again. He most certainly was not. Shuddering, she decided, "Thank heavens we are not going to raise our child in the cellars…and that we left the opera before I ever saw a single rat!"

Shrugging as if such a detail were inconsequential, he replied, "We also had quite the infestation of spiders…which was probably why my dream self was studying them so diligently. Know thy enemy and its every weakness."

When her expression did not change, Erik conceded defeat with a sigh. "Not even a smile for the effort. I am merely trying to cure you of these infernal tears and desolations. It breaks my heart to be awakened by my beautiful wife's dream-state sobbing. You cry over hallucinations."

"I can't help it," she justified with another sniffle. "You were _dead_, Erik, and even if it was only a dream, to even envision such a horrid fate… I didn't want to go on without you."

His expression grew tender; she adored the way love looked across such damaged skin. As he caressed every feature of her face with affectionate hands, he admitted, "Now that is something I understand all too well because a life without you is a waste of breath and existence. Christine, …no more tears, love. Our future is a happy one with every _dream_ coming true. Nightmares have no place here."

This time she surrendered to the smile he obviously wanted and brought her hands to his face to mimic his pose. "I love you, Erik. I said it over and over in my dream, and you never truly believed me. But you _do_ believe me, don't you?"

"Of course. You love me," Erik whispered and bent to brush his lips across hers. "You are _everything_, Christine."

Perhaps she would have fallen into the bliss of the moment with him, but she suddenly darted her gaze to the bedside table, eyeing the object sitting there with disdain. "Don't be angry, but when we finally leave this bed for the day, I'm shattering that sweet lamb statue you bought for the baby's room into pieces."

"What? Why?"

Christine narrowed a glare on the fluffy little lamb's face. "Because every time I look at it, I only remember how it felt to lose you."

Erik's chuckle made her smile again as he eyed her as if she were ridiculous. "That precious little thing makes you think of _death_?"

"You had it on the mantle of the underground house in my dream, and now I cannot look at it without remembering."

"That is the last time I give you a gift before bedtime!" he concluded, still laughing. "The sweet little lamb isn't so sweet after all if he inspires such traumatic states of subconscious. Yes, my love, shatter him to pieces; blame his white fluffy little face, and we will call this ordeal over." Setting a hand upon her belly, Erik spoke low and gentle to their child, declaring, "I knew _you_ weren't the cause of such delusions, _enfant_. You'd _never_ wish your father dead. The little lamb is the culprit and will be duly punished."

Christine couldn't help but laugh as she bid, "You know you sound crazy, don't you?"

"This from the woman who wants to shatter statues because they remind her of nightmares," he teased back and then decided, "But if crazy earns me laughs and smiles, then crazy I will be." Bending to set a kiss to her belly, he corrected, "Crazy but happy and loved for all eternity. Is there any better dream than that?"

"None at all," she agreed, sliding her fingers into his hair as he rested his cheek against their baby. "I love you_, ange_, now and forever."

"And the final act has ended, and that is my happily ever after," Erik replied.


End file.
